wind sand and stars st.antoine de saint-exupery-第19章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


us　when　we　set　out　to　fly　our　first　mails；　when　we　prepared　ourselves　to　be　transformed　into　men　…　we　who'　had　had　the　luck　to　be　called。　Those　clerks　were　kneaded　of　the　same　stuff　as　the　rest　of　us；　but　they　knew　not　that　they　were　hungry。　
　　To　e　to　man's　estate　it　is　not　necessary　to　get　oneself　killed　round　Madrid；　or　to　fly　mail　planes；　or　to　struggle　wearily　in　the　snows　out　of　respect　for　the　dignity　of　life。　The　man　who　can　see　the　miraculous　in　a　poem；　who　can　take　pure　joy　from　music；　who　can　break　his　bread　with　rades；　opens　his　window　to　the　same。　refreshing　wind　off　the　sea。　He　too　learns　a　language　of　men。　
　　But　too　many　men　are　left　unawakened。　
　　A　few　years　ago；　in　the　course　of　a　long　railway　journey；　I　was　suddenly　seized　by　a　desire　to　make　a　tour　of　the　little　country　in　which　I　was　locked　up　for　three　days；　cradled　in　that　rattle　that　is　like　the　sound　of　pebbles　rolled　over　and　over　by　the　waves；　and　I　got　up　out　of　my　berth。　At　one　in　the　morning　I　went　through　the　train　in　all　its　length。　The　sleeping　cars　were　empty。　The　first…class　carriages　were　empty。　They　put　me　in　mind　of　the　luxurious　hotels　on　the　Riviera　that　open　in　winter　for　a　single　guest；　the　last　representative　of　an　extinct　fauna。　A　sign　of　bitter　times。　
　　But　the　third…class　carriages　were　crowded　with　hundreds　of　Polish　workmen　sent　home　from　France。　I　made　my　way　along　those　passages；　stepping　over　sprawling　bodies　and　peering　into　the　carriages。　In　the　dim　glow　cast　by　the　night…lamps　into　these　barren　and　fortless　partments　I　saw　a　confused　mass　of　people　churned　about　by　the　swaying　of　the　train；　the　whole　thing　looking　and　smelling　like　a　barrack…room。　A　whole　nation　returning　to　its　native　poverty　seemed　to　sprawl　there　in　a　sea　of　bad　dreams。　Great　shaven　heads　rolled　on　the　cushionless　benches。　Men；　women；　and　children　were　stirring　in　their　sleep；　tossing　from　left　to　right　and　back　again　as　if　attacked　by　all　the　noises　and　jerkings　that　threatened　them　in　their　oblivion。　They　had　not　found　the　hospitality　of　a　sweet　slumber。　
　　Looking　at　them　I　said　to　myself　that　they　had　lost　half　their　human　quality。　These　people　had　been　knocked　about　from　one　end　of　Europe　to　the　other　by　the　economic　currents；　they　had　been　torn　from　their　little　houses　in　the　north　of　France；　from　their　tiny　garden…plots；　their　three　pots　of　geranium　that　always　stood　in　the　windows　of　the　Polish　miners'　families。　I　saw　lying　beside　them　pots　and　pans；　blankets；　curtains；　bound　into　bundles　badly　tied　and　swollen　with　hernias。　
　　Out　of　all　that　they　had　caressed　or　loved　in　France；　out　of　everything　they　had　succeeded　in　taming　in　their　four　or　five　years　in　my　country　…the　cat；　the　dog；　the　geranium…they　had　been　able　to　bring　away　with　them　only　a　few　kitchen　utensils；　two　or　three　blankets；　a　curtain　or　so。　
　　A　baby　lay　at　the　breast　of　a　mother　so　weary　that　she　seemed　asleep。　Life　was　being　transmitted　in　the　shabbiness　and　the　disorder　of　this　journey。　I　looked　at　the　father。　A　powerful　skull　as　naked　as　a　stone。　A　body　hunched　over　in　unfortable　sleep；　imprisoned　in　working　clothes；　all　humps　and　hollows。　The　man　looked　like　a　lump　of　clay；　like　one　of　those　sluggish　and　shapeless　derelicts　that　crumple　into　sleep　in　our　public　markets。　
　　And　I　thought：　The　problem　does　not　reside　in　this　poverty；　in　this　filth；　in　this　ugliness。　But　this　same　man　and　this　same　woman　met　one　day。　This　man　must　have　smiled　at　this　woman。　He　may；　after　his　work　was　done；　have　brought　her　flowers。　Timid　and　awkward；　perhaps　he　trembled　lest　she　disdain　him。　And　this　woman；　out　of　natural　coquetry；　this　woman　sure　of　her　charms；　perhaps　took　pleasure　in　teasing　him。　And　this　man；　this　man　who　is　now　no　more　than　a　machine　for　swinging　a　pick　or　a　sledge…hammer；　must　have　felt　in　his　heart　a　delicious　anguish。　The　mystery　is　that　they　should　have　bee　these　lumps　of　clay。　Into　what　terrible　mould　were　they　forced？　What　was　it　that　marked　them　like　this　as　if　they　had　been　put　through　a　monstrous　stamping　machine？　A　deer；　a　gazelle；　any　animal　grown　old；　preserves　its　grace。　What　is　it　that　corrupts　this　wonderful　clay　of　which　man　is　kneaded？　
　　I　went　on　through　these　people　whose　slumber　was　as　sinister　as　a　den　of　evil。　A　vague　noise　floated　in　the　air　made　up　of　raucous　snores；　obscure　moanings；　and　the　scraping　of　clogs　as　their　wearers；　broken　on　one　side；　sought　fort　on　the　other。　And　always　the　muted　acpaniment　of　those　pebbles　rolled　over　and　over　by　the　waves。　
　　I　sat　down　face　to　face　with　one　couple。　Between　the　man　and　the　woman　a　child　had　hollowed　himself　out　a　place　and　fallen　asleep。　He　turned　in　his　slumber；　and　in　the　dim　lamplight　I　saw　his　face。　What　an　adorable　face！　A　golden　fruit　had　been　born　of　these　two　peasants。　Forth　from　this　sluggish　scum　had　sprung　this　miracle　of　delight　and　grace。　
　　I　bent　over　the　smooth　brow；　over　those　mildly　pouting　lips；　and　I　said　to　myself：　This　is　a　musician's　face。　This　is　the　child　Mozart。　This　is　a　life　full　of　beautiful　promise。　Little　princes　in　legends　are　not　different　from　this。　Protected；　sheltered；　cultivated；　what　could　not　this　child　bee？　
　　When　by　mutation　a　new　rose　is　born　in　a　garden；　all　the　gardeners　rejoice。　They　isolate　the　rose；　tend　it；　foster　it。　But　there　is　no　gardener　for　men。　This　little　Mozart　will　be　shaped　like　the　rest　by　the　mon　stamping　machine。　This　little　Mozart　will　love　shoddy　music　in　the　stench　of　night　dives。　This　little　Mozart　is　condemned　
　　I　went　back　to　my　sleeping　car。　I　said　to　myself：　Their　fate　causes　these　people　no　suffering。　It　is　not　an　impulse　to　charity　that　has　upset　me　like　this。　I　am　not　weeping　over　an　eternally　open　wound。　Those　who　carry　the　wound　do　not　feel　it。　It　is　the　human　race　and　not　the　individual　that　is　wounded　here；　is　outraged　here。　I　do　not　believe　in　pity。　What　torments　me　tonight　is　the　gardener's　point　of　view。　What　torments　me　is　not　this　poverty　to　which　after　all　a　man　can　accustom　himself　as　easily　as　to　sloth。　Generations　of　Orientals　live　in　filth　and　love　it。　What　torments　me　is　not　the　humps　nor　hollows　nor　the　ugliness。　It　is　the　sight；　a　little　bit　in　all　these　men；　of　Mozart　murdered。　
　　Only　the　Spirit；　if　it　breathe　upon　the　clay；　can　create　Man。　
　　Wind；　Sand　and　Stars　by　Antoine　de　Saint…Exupery　
　　Chapter　10　…　Conclusion